Blood and Brotherhood
by Drag0nst0rm
Summary: There was nothing in the world that could convince Darcy that his sister was a monster. A sudden aversion to light and taste for blood weren't going to change that.
1. Chapter 1

_6\. I do not think the ministry would suit me, _Wickham had said, and he had said it with a private sort of smile, as if it were a joke only he understood.

Darcy had agreed, but he hadn't fully understood the joke.

By the time he was buried in the third book to speak of demons with an engraving that looked far too familiar, he understood it far too well.

* * *

2\. Georgiana did not wake for three days after he found her.

_Blood, so much blood, pouring out of her neck -_

Darcy had spent those days alternating between standing grim sentry over her bedside and stalking the streets of the seaside town in the hopes of delivering a more permanent solution to the problem of Wickham than the blows that had originally driven him off.

Neither had availed much. Wickham remained lost to the shadows, and Georgiana remained lost to fevered torment.

"The wound must have gotten infected," the doctor said grimly. "I have never seen the like of that wound." He shook his head. "She may yet wake."

He did not seem to think it likely.

It was midnight when her frantic thrashing ceased.

So did her breath.

He startled from his half-awake vigil, heart near stopping in terror. "Georgiana?" The doctor, he had to send for the doctor -

Her skin was cold to the touch. How did she grow so cold so quickly?

"Georgiana!"

She was still not breathing when her eyes flickered open. "Brother? What has happened?" Her voice shook with uncertainty. A hand fluttered to her bandaged throat.

"Nothing you need worry about now," he said firmly, reigning in his own confusion. "You are cold. I will send for more blankets at once."

She frowned. "I'm not," she contradicted and then flinched a little at having done so. "Not very. I am just so terribly thirsty."

"Water, then," he said, relieved for something to do.

Anything to help him forget that terrible moment when he'd thought -

He poured her water from the pitcher in her room quickly and offered it to her. She looked at it with surprising hesitance before taking a cautious sip and grimacing a little at the taste.

"Is something wrong? Should I fetch something else? I do not know that wine would be wise in your present condition, but tea might do you good."

She hesitated. "I - tea, perhaps, if it is not too much trouble," she said quietly. "Something warm seems very appealing just now."

"I'll arrange for it at once," he assured her, ringing for the maid.

But when the tea came, she made the exact same face before swallowing it down like it was the bitterest of medicines. Her eyes kept flickering over to him, but she never let herself meet his eyes, her gaze still landing at his chin, if not lower.

And her lips still looked terribly parched.

* * *

3\. He was still with her when the sun rose. She had seemed little inclined to sleep after resting for so long, and he had hated the thought of leaving her after that scare.

And he liked to see her talking. When she was silent, something about her looked so terribly still.

When dawn finally crept through the window, he was relieved. Perhaps the worst was finally behind them.

Georgiana flinched back with a cry.

"Georgiana, what - " But he already saw. Everywhere the light had touched had already acquired the faint pink of a light burn, and it was only getting worse.

He flung himself at the window and slammed the curtains shut.

Georgiana trembled on the bed, staring at her faintly smoking arm. "What is wrong with me?" she whispered in terror.

"Nothing time and rest won't cure," he said firmly, pouring water from the pitcher onto his handkerchief and pressing it gently against her arm. "You have lost a lot of blood. Apparently it has made you sensitive to light. It is no matter; it is easy enough to have the curtains drawn throughout the house until you recover."

He had no idea if what he said was nonsense or truth, but it relieved her, at least.

Things would be alright.

They had to be.

* * *

4\. He took her on an evening stroll when she was well enough. They walked on the beach; if sea air did invalids good, perhaps it would help her as well, and in that case, the closer they could get, the better. She was still so weak, and he feared she was starting to become more so once more, but the doctor had insisted that she needed the exercise, and at least this way she could be protected by the cool of the evening air under the moon's gentle light.

The boys tormenting a dog as they passed were less gentle, and Darcy sent them off sharply with a ward of warning and a cuff around the ears. Georgiana had fallen to her knees to cosset and soothe the dog, and he turned back to warn her to be careful. If it was wild -

She was bent over some injury the boys had caused, was his first thought, because that made sense.

As opposed to her lapping at that wound with her tongue, which did not.

The dog whined but didn't pull away, locked in place and swaying.

Like Georgiana had been.

"Georgiana," he said, voice tight. "Georgiana!"

Her face snapped up, and for one moment her gentle face was almost fierce.

Then the truth of what she was doing hit her ,and she recoiled in horror, burying her face in her hands. "No," she cried. "No, no, no - "

She flinched from his touch when he helped her up. The dog had already fled. "It's alright," he said quietly. "It's alright. The dog is fine. You will be fine. No one saw."

_"__You _saw!" she cried, shuddering beneath his arm. "Saw that I am, that I am a monster!"

"No," he said firmly. "Never." But that unshakeable certainty could not prevent his utter bewilderment. "But why would you do such a thing?"

She shuddered again. "I didn't want to," she said. "I didn't want to, but the water doesn't help, and the tea doesn't help, no matter how much I drink, and I was just so thirsty."

"And did the blood help?" he asked and could barely believe he could hear himself saying it.

"Yes," she whispered into his coat. "It did."

* * *

1\. He found Wickham with his fangs buried in Georgiana's neck.

Darcy had planned to surprise her. He had never in a thousand years imagined a scene like this.

He pulled Wickham off her with a snarl, fist already crashing into his face.

Wickham - red eyed, still fanged, and what cursed devilry was this - crashed into the wall and sprang up with a snarl of his own. His eyes darted between Darcy and Georgiana before a careless smile appeared on his face. "Never mind," he said. "This is revenge enough."

He fled from the room with unnatural speed, but Darcy had no more time to be concerned with him or with the things he could not have possibly seen. Georgiana lay sprawled on the floor, blood still pooling around her neck. He tore his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to her neck at once, shouting for the servants.

The moment one appeared, he sent her for the doctor.

Whatever had just happened, his sister needed treatment. Now.

* * *

5\. Blood could be procured from the butcher easily enough, even in the quantities he needed. When a gentlemen offered enough money for something, no one asked questions.

Curtains could be drawn on the journey back, thick curtains arranged for their arrival, the arrival itself timed for the evening.

He hated to abandon the search for Wickham, especially now when more than ever he needed answers, but Wickham had surely fled the town by now, and he could send agents to continue the search for him.

For now, he had to make Georgiana comfortable.

While he did, he could continue his search for answers through the Pemberly library.

Surely one of the multitudes it contained must have something for him now.

* * *

7\. The books failed him. There were legends, myths, but nothing specific. Nothing that fit.

Only fear.

He refused to believe otherwise.

Georgiana took one look at the engravings in the book he held and turned even paler than she already was and fled.

"Georgiana!" He ran after her. The horror on her face -

It was not strictly proper for him to follow her into her room like this, perhaps, but he could hardly stop himself now. She had come to a stop by her jewelry box of all things and was staring at it as if mesmerized.

"He didn't like the necklace you gave me for my last birthday," she said, and her voice shook as she spoke.

Her last -

It had been sapphires.

Sapphires in the shape of a cross.

"I suppose this is why, if we are demons like it said." Tears trembled in her eyes now.

"Georgiana, no," he said firmly, striding towards her, filled with some unnamed fear. "The book is wrong, you know that."

"I was such a fool," she said, still shaking, and then her hand darted into the box and snatched up the cross, holding it in her trembling fist.

May he be forgiven, he had expected pain. But her eyes widened in startlement instead and her mouth dropped open a little as she turned to him. "It doesn't hurt," she said, and her fist dropped open a little to reveal the cross in her unblemished palm. "He bled when he tried to touch it. Why doesn't it hurt?"

"Because you are no monster," he said firmly, ignoring his muscles own desire to shake as he pulled her into a tight embrace. "You are no monster, no demon, and you never could be, do you understand? The books are wrong."

At the very least, they were incomplete.

Which meant he was going to need better books.

* * *

9\. He had told friends and servants alike that Georgiana had taken ill; for the servants, this explained the new oddities in their work, and to their friends, it excused their removal from all current social engagements. Georgiana would be safe enough at home for a few weeks while he did what he trusted no agent to do properly and trusted even less his ability to explain.

He tried to imagine telling Bingley in a letter that he had refused his friend's invitation to his new establishment at Netherfield in order to hunt down books of the occult in London.

Bingley would probably think it was a joke.

Most of them were worse than useless but one -

One that he found in a dusty shop tucked in the corner of a street he would hate to be seen down was more promising.

_The vampyre will not reach its full strength - or damnation - until it has tasted of human blood. Until then it is weak to the pure light of the sun, and it may be more easily destroyed - _

Darcy slammed the book shut. He was not looking to destroy anyone.

Or at least not anyone who wasn't named Wickham. And Wickham had most _certainly_ already partaken of human blood.

* * *

8\. "The books here are not enough," he told Georgiana over dinner when months had passed and still he had made no progress. He had touched little of his own food. Georgiana had touched none, sticking only to the glass in front of her. "In two days time I will go to London to seek more."

"I could come with you," she offered softly.

"No," he said. "Travel is too dangerous. We were fortunate last time that your burns were not worse."

She nodded and looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap.

He frowned. "What troubles you?"

"Nothing," she said hastily, biting her lip. "Only - only you will come back, won't you?" she burst out. "I know - I know this is terrible, and it is all my fault, but I could not bear it if - "

He rose from the table and cross to her side immediately, kneeling to take her hands. "It is not your fault," he said firmly. "And I will be back as swiftly as I can, I promise. I will not leave you, never."

* * *

10\. He bought the book, despite its more objectionable passages, because it seemed to have less nonsense in it the others.

Though he hoped a good deal of it was.

_A vampyre can live for centuries if a righteous man does not cut off its foul head and thrust it into cleansing fire -_

He would very much like to do that to Wickham, but if the rest of it was true -

What would he tell his cousin when his sister failed to change? What would he tell his aunt? He could seclude Georgiana from the rest of society, but he could hardly refuse entrance to Fitzwilliam, and missions like this would call him away. He could not guarantee he would be there to stop his aunt.

And unless he could find some cure, there could be no question of her marrying. Not now. What could they tell her husband? How might he react? How could they possibly take the risk?

No. He would take care of her, somehow. He would manage.

And when he died -

He wished the thought could be pushed away as easily as the book.

He sighed and turned at last to his letters. His aunt had written, a prospect he regarded with a grimace, but Bingley had as well, much to his relief. He could use some of the Bingley's lightness just now.

It was good news, mostly. Bingley seemed to think himself in love again, a prospect that would alarm Darcy more if he had the energy for it.

There was to be a ball, apparently, and Bingley was once more appealing for Darcy to join, preferably in time for it. He had already invited several families of the neighborhood, including the one that held the object of his affections and her allegedly very pretty sisters. He had also invited some among the militia, including one that had reacted rather oddly at his name; did he happen to know a man named -

Wickham.

Darcy stared at the page before grabbing two sheets of paper to dash off the quickest notes he dared. His apologies to Georgiana, he was going to be delayed; his delighted acceptance to Bingley, that yes, he would certainly be there for the ball.

Or earlier, if he could mange it.

It was past time he went to Netherfield.


	2. Chapter 2

(1)

In his youth, Mr. Bennet saved Miss Gardiner from an attack by a creature that polite society would have disdained to believe in had anyone been so foolish as to actually repeat the tale. It was all rather romantic and exciting, and Mr. Bennet could not say he was displeased to find himself swept up into a marriage as soon as it could be decently arranged.

Unfortunately, the new Mrs. Bennet's nerve had been permanently broken by the adventure, and Mr. Bennet soon discovered that the reality of marrying the beautiful damsel after her heroic rescue was not quite the recipe for guaranteed domestic bliss that he had hoped.

* * *

(2)

Elizabeth Bennet read everything in her father's library that she could reach, a limitation that diminished swiftly as she grew. Her favorites were the ones her father kept in the back of his study: thick tomes filled with impossible descriptions of hideous beasts and that had an annoying tendency to quote extensively in Latin or other, far more obscure languages.

Jane shuddered at the monstrous woodcuts that decorated the pages while Lydia took a ghoulish thrill from them. Elizabeth, for her part, found them a source of amusement more than anything else. She found great humor in the ridiculous, and it was hard to imagine more ridiculous creatures than those recorded in the pages of her favorite books.

Her mother had a shrieking fit when she discovered what Elizabeth was reading and took to her bed for three days. Her father for once intervened; he gave her something that very nearly resembled a lecture and moved his books to a higher shelf.

He forgot to move them again when she grew.

* * *

(3)

Her father's attitude towards correspondence was, at best, indifferent. Letters would be read sooner or later, although mostly later, but responses were another matter entirely; they were almost uniformly slow in coming and discovered to be brief in the extreme upon arrival.

For Elizabeth, this was rarely a matter of much concern as she had little need to write to her father as she was so infrequently parted from him, but it was a habit she had noted nonetheless. Only one correspondent got anything resembling a prompt reply, and even they, apparently, had cause to complain.

She discovered this last quite unintentionally. Her father had apparently used the old letter as a bookmark and then forgotten about it when he returned the book to the shelf, and the temptation of reading it upon its discovery was too great to resist.

. . . You really must start replying more promptly; it seems every time I must convince Mr. M- anew that you have not been felled by some nightmarish beast, but are merely behind once again on your correspondence, and I would really much appreciate relief from the chore. I know you say Meryton has little to fear, but have pity on an old friend's nerves, eh? . . .

It was an absurd letter, not only for its contents but for the image on its cracked seal. The imprint on it mentioned a society of some sort, which was ridiculous; she knew full well her father belonged to no such thing.

Except she had seen such letters before, she realized, and her eyes fell again to the phrase nightmarish beasts.

The woodcuts in the book suddenly seemed a little less funny.

* * *

(4)

She didn't ask her father. It was a ridiculous question, and she could not bear the idea of her father thinking her as ridiculous as he thought Kitty and Lydia.

She set the matter out of her mind and determinedly thought of other things.

She succeeded at this until the militia arrived at Meryton.

* * *

(5)

When a maid went missing, it was assumed she had run off with a sweetheart. Scandalous and inconvenient, but nothing more.

When a second and third went missing, a faint sense of uneasiness began to rise.

Elizabeth had expected her mother to complain about servants in general and fret that theirs would be running off next. She had not expected the genuine fear in her mother's eyes - or for the growing crease between her father's.

She dreamed of the woodcuts coming to life.

It was still nonsense, surely.

Even if her father had gone to the trouble of writing a letter and posting it with far more than his usual haste.

* * *

(6)

The arrival of Mr. Darcy was a relief. Whatever was going on - and Elizabeth refused to name it in bald terms even to herself for fear of becoming quite ridiculous - it was indisputable that it had started only after the militia had arrived, and while this correlation did not quite imply causation, it was nonetheless suspicious, and suspicion was exactly how Mr. Darcy was regarding those of the militia who had been invited to the Netherfield Ball, particularly the charming Mr. Wickham and the friends he spoke with.

That Mr. Darcy had arrived to deal with the problem was quite certain in Elizabeth's mind. The black looks he regarded the militia with and the caution he was treated with in return certainly spoke to some sort of history, and surely his arrival so soon after her father's letter could not be a coincidence.

No, she was determined that he must be part of the society her father's letters had spoken of. That he was a friend of Mr. Bingley's was convenient pretext, nothing more, and she could not think otherwise. That something was going on was no longer disputable; her mother, of all people, had nearly refused to let them come to the ball for fear of unnamed dangers that would come from travelling even this short distance in the dark. Her father had soothed those fears with a quiet conversation Elizabeth had been unable to arrange to overhear, but surely this was the solution. It was being handled.

So why did her father still look so concerned?

* * *

(7)

If she had not been keeping so careful an eye on Mr. Darcy, she would never have noticed when he jerked to attention and made his quick, quiet way out of the room.

Mr. Wickham, she realized, was already gone.

For a moment, she badly wanted to follow him. It was, of course, in all respects a bad idea, both for the sake of propriety and for the sake of her half-formed suspicions, but the very uncertainty of those suspicions made her burn with curiosity all the more. She had come to the limit of what she could learn by reading, and she dared not ask. What else was left to her?

But it was a ridiculous, indulgent, impulsive thought, far more suited to Lydia than herself –

Lydia.

Where was Lydia?

A bewildered Jane said that she had last seen her dancing with Wickham.

* * *

(8)

The grounds of Netherfield were quite lovely in the daylight hours.

In the darkness, every tree limb was a grasping hand, and every shadow grew eyes.

She was being absurd. She should go back inside. She should tell her father.

But it was hard to imagine her father in any active pursuit, and –

There.

She had rounded a corner, and there before her was Wickham, holding Lydia indecently tight to his chest.

There was blood on Lydia's neck.

She was swaying, utterly silent, eyes dreamlike, apparently totally unaware of what was happening around her. Wickham was snarling at Darcy, and there was blood on his teeth. Her sister's blood.

This was far worse than any woodcut.

Mr. Darcy had some sort of weapon in his hand, but he held it at the ready only.

He couldn't strike, she realized. Not with Lydia in the way.

His eyes flicked over to her for the barest second, and his face drained of color, but he turned his attention back to Wickham immediately.

Her mouth had gone utterly dry.

She had pieced it all together. She had been right.

That did not at all change the fact that she did not feel the slightest bit clever now.

"Hello, Mr. Wickham," she said, and long years of keeping her voice cheerful for Mama served her well. "You promised me this dance."

Mr. Wickham spun to face her, eyes wide.

The distraction cost him.

Mr. Dracy sprang forward and buried his weapon in Mr. Wickham's back.

Mr. Wickham convulsed, Lydia slipping from his arms, and Elizabeth sprang forward to pull her to safety, a shriek hastily bitten back on her tongue.

Mr. Darcy swung again, a blade glinting in the moonlight and –

And in two strokes it was done, and there was nothing more than dark dust floating away under the moonlight.

Elizabeth reminded herself, very firmly, that she must not scream.

* * *

(9)

Her next clear memory was of sitting on a nicely solid stone bench by the path. Lydia was leaning against her shoulder, all but asleep, and Mr. Darcy was crouched in front of her, looking highly concerned.

"Your sister should be alright now," he was saying. "I – I know the events of tonight have been highly – irregular. I cannot imagine what you must think."

"It's alright," Elizabeth said faintly.

Mr. Darcy looked highly relieved to hear her speak. "I should, I suppose, provide an explanation."

"He was a vampire," Elizabeth said. The word felt foreign on her tongue. She hadn't spoken of creatures like that aloud since she was giggling over them when she was too young to know better. It felt absurd to speak of them here.

"I – yes. How – "

"I read some of my father's letters," Elizabeth said vaguely. That should be sufficient, surely. She helped Lydia stand. "We really must get back to the ball."

* * *

(10)

Elizabeth was not surprised when Mr. Darcy disappeared almost immediately after the ball. His business was, after all, concluded, and she had no idea how in demand his services might be.

She did wish that he had remained a little longer. She felt she could not have made a good impression with her shock after the fight, and she would have liked the chance to make a better accounting of herself. He was almost certainly her best chance at getting any answers, and her squeamishness had prevented her from demanding them.

Her father might have provided them; he had gone pale after seeing the marks on Lydia's neck, carefully concealed throughout the ball but revealed at home, and he had all but dragged her into his office to talk. Lydia had emerged pale and quieter than ever; her father had emerged refusing to speak of the matter at all.

Mama had taken to her bed for a week, which was exasperating, but not surprising.

What was surprising was when a friend of Papa's arrived at the end of that week, apologizing for his late arrival and wearing a ring that bore the exact same image as the seals on the letters her father so often received.

So if this was who her father had sent for –

What, exactly, had been Mr. Darcy's role in events?

It was a puzzle, and one she was unlikely to get any answers to.

She was glad, at least, to have her holiday with her aunt and uncle to look forward to. It would be good to get out of the house, with all its reminders, and distract herself with new scenery.

Perhaps she could put all of this behind her when she went.

* * *

(x)

(When Darcy finally arrived at home, having pushed the horses as fast as he dared, he was told he could find Georgiana on the grounds.)

(He found her drinking in the bright sunlight, glowing in it without a hint of a burn.)

(When she went flying into his arms for an embrace, her skin was warm and alive beneath his hands.)

* * *

(xx)

(He had thought well of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She had been shocked by events, of course, but she had kept her wits about her, and he was intrigued by the hint that she knew more than he would have expected of any young lady who had not before seen the depths of the shadows. He had not, however, thought he was particularly likely to ever see her again.)

(He thought this right up until he all but ran into her in the middle of the Pemberley grounds.)

(It was not an at all unwelcome encounter.)


End file.
